


More Fragile Than We Seem

by BrandyFromTheBottle



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Body Worship, Bondage, Emotional Sex, Face-Fucking, Fluff and Smut, It won't kill you, M/M, Oral Sex, Rope Bondage, fuckin hell, like seriously just talk to each other, the boys are bad at communication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-26 15:59:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13239150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrandyFromTheBottle/pseuds/BrandyFromTheBottle
Summary: Ford and Stan try something new that doesn't quite work out. Ford keeps trying, though.orStan and Ford suck at bondage so Ford makes it weird.





	More Fragile Than We Seem

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this too early so it's back!

“Comfortable?” Ford checks the knots, carefully secured opposite his brother’s nimble thumbs. He forces a finger between the rope and Stan’s wrist to check its security. Stan wiggles his hands--a ludicrous sight, like a fish flopping on the deck of the Stan-of-War II.

“Like a pig in a blanket.” Stan chuckles, turning his wrists a little. Ford follows the line of the rope to the headrest, making sure the knot there won’t tangle or fray. Well, Ford is dallying, really, the nylon weave would be near impossible to fray against the old wood of the bed frame. But it gives him the chance to lean over Stan and hear the little hitch of breath, feel the hot exhale absorbed by his burgundy sweater. He leans back onto his haunches, straddling Stan’s thighs.

Ford can’t help a little, self-deprecating smile as he looks over Stan. It’s a hubris unique to twins, he muses, that he should find Stan so attractive when they are near identical--or similar enough to deceive an omniscient being of pure energy. It’s not the similarities--the bone structure and length of their limbs--that Ford finds so enticing. It is how the years have taken two like slabs of stone and hewn them into disparate, unique images. Whereas Ford has grown lean, Stan has grown soft, his hairy stomach is revealed in an endearing sliver where the white undershirt has been pulled up by the tension of Stan’s brawny arms bound above his head. Ford traces his eyes up those strong arms, powerful muscles hidden under fat and hair, deceptive in their perceived softness.

In contrast to Ford, Stan’s thighs are lean where Ford’s are thick with muscle. If Stan is to be believed, Ford also has the superior ass (“seriously, if ya sat too hard ya’d bounce right up on those bubble buns”). Ford didn’t regularly find the time to observe his own butt, so he took Stan’s word for what it was—not always wise when dealing with a conman.

Ford is startled out of his musing by a pointed cough.

“So, ah, you gonna, ya know, do anything?” Stan wiggles his hips in a tease and Ford finds himself blushing, one hand rubbing the back of his neck.

“Sorry, just thinking.” Ford brings both hands down to Stan’s stomach, just feeling the way it moves as Stan breathes deeply in and out, barrel chest expanding and contracting. Ford hums, letting his hands wander down to the hem of Stan’s shirt, gently scratching the exposed hair. Stan huffs, the rope makes a little sound, soft and quiet, as the arms they bind jerk in agitation.

“Sometime today, Ford, before my hands fall off.” Stan wiggles the appendages in question for emphasis. Ford quirks a brow and smiles.

“Are you insulting my handiwork?” Ford lets his fingers dig into the belly beneath his hands—the coarse hair a heady contrast to the softness of aged skin and pads of fat. Ford looks away from Stan’s indignant face to watch the kneading of his fingers. The little valleys that form around each of his six fingers before they slide forward and his dry palms catch on the little imperfections of Stan’s body. He revels in feeling Stan’s irritated huff in the minute spasm of his stomach.

“Nah, just yer methods.” Stan tries to wiggle his hips, but he gets neither friction or leverage, Ford sitting comfortably on his thighs. Ford does enjoy feeling Stan’s lean thigh muscles contract and twitch, rectus femoris tightening and Ford can even feel the shift of Stan’s abdominal muscles—the interior, intimate movement translated easily through the layers of subcutaneous fat.

Ford tucks his hands under Stan’s shirt and begins to push up, against the grain of Stan’s happy trail and chest hair, feeling every rough curl stretch and spring back into place. Stan’s stomach is exposed, shuddering slightly in the cooler air and the primordial fear of vulnerable exposure. Ford bends and kisses that quivering stomach at its apex, let's his lips slide dryly down one side, letting his stubbled cheek drag roughly. Ford rubs his cheek back to the apex and let's a wetter kiss land beside Stan’s navel. Ford rises back up, weight on his forearms, and smiles smugly at Stan’s red face, blown pupils, rapid breathes.

“I'm sorry, Stanley, am I boring you?” Ford hums, shifting his weight back to Stan’s thighs. Stan jerks forward to follow him, stopped short by his bound hands. He seems to come back to himself, slack face sliding back into his cocky facade.

“Dick doesn't need a walker, Ford. Ready to go when you are.” Stan gyrates against the air, trying to draw attention to his humble half chub. Ford scoffs, leaning further away.

“Be patient, Stanley.” Ford rubs absently at Stan’s thighs, still clad in worn, rough denim, still watching Stan’s now exposed stomach, each rise and fall a gentle reminder that Stan is here. Stan is okay.

“Ford, if ya don't wanna fuck this fatass, just say it.” Ford looks up, surprised, and sees Stan’s face set in his trademark scowl, interrupted by a flush of red across his face. Ford realizes that what he thought was arousal may well be shame. He frowns.

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Thought it was obvious.”

“Enlighten me.” Ford growls, tries to relax his fingers from their defensive curl into Stan’s legs.

“Fuckin' untie me, Sixer. I'm not in the mood anymore.” Stan is already contorting his fingers to pick and loosen the knot securing him.

“You know the safeword, Stanley.” Ford snipes, crossing his arms, frustrated by Stan’s behavior. Stan’s glare is lethal.

“Untie me, Stanford.” He growls. Ford feels his resolve steel.

“Stanley, you aren't making any sense.” Ford says, easy and calm. Stan snarls.

“I'm not--!? Ford, you're the one what can't get passed my beer gut!” Stan gives an irritated jerk at the ropes around his wrists. “Fuckin’--untie me, you asshole!” Stan tugs again and Ford is getting worried he might hurt himself.

“Stan, calm down,” Ford rubs a hand down Stan’s outer thigh as if soothing a horse. Stan just growls and shakes Ford's hands off.

“Fuck off, Ford. I don't need your pity!” Stan is all but shouting and though they are far out at sea, Ford still casts an eye toward the door. When there is no threat, Ford glares down at his brother, putting every ounce of authority into his voice.

“Stanley Pines, I am trying to help you.” Stan glares at him, mouth twisted in a grimace. Ford sighs, rubs the bridge of his nose. “I'm...sorry,” and those words are still so hard to say. “If I’ve...upset you.” Stan is still scowling at him, resolute and stubborn.

“Untie me.” He growls. Ford huffs and rolls his eyes.

“Fine, if you’re going to be a child about this,” Ford moves off Stan with a swing of his leg and a smooth slide to the floor.

“Oh, fuck you, asshole.” Stan is glaring at the wall, not Ford. Ford pauses, feels his face twist in frustration and makes a decision.

“Actually,” he leans against the wall, “I think I’ll leave you like this until you feel like being reasonable.” Ford pushes from the wall and turns from the bed, catching Stan’s panicked face and renewed struggling.

“Ford, you can’t be serious, even you aren’t that much of a dick.” Stan is barely able to cover his anxiety with incredulity. Ford hums, ambling to the doorway, letting a hand linger on the doorframe. He can hear Stan’s thrashing and swearing, but Ford has utilized his extra-dimensional knowledge to ensure the knots can’t be slipped. “This is fucked up, Ford!” Stan is shouting.

“I’m not the one being so stubborn, Stanley,” Ford looks over his shoulder and regrets it instantly.

Stan looks shaken, his hands are going red from his increasingly irrational attempts at freedom, his breath quickening. Ford’s heart drops to his gut, blood running cold before he’s by his brother’s side, working the knots, shushing and soothing.

“God, Stan, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it--fuck, I shouldn’t have. It’s okay, I’ve got you, it’s okay.” The rope slacks enough that Stan yanks his hands free and curls away from Ford, still breathing too fast. Ford reaches a tentative hand to settle on Stan’s shoulder. Stan shudders but doesn’t shove him off, so Ford lets his hand rub softly down his upper arm and back up again. He murmurs quiet platitudes that sound as substantial as a wafer in water. But, still, he lets his rough palm move against the bare skin under his hand, the slight catch and drag of wrinkling skin and thick hair. Ford imagines this is what it feels like to stroke the mane of a powerful beast (like the felids of 2-u5, prized for their coarse hides that repelled cold, wet, and heat). Ford lets a few fingers circle, swirling a clump of hair into a peak. The coarse hair catches the light.

“I’m gross.” Stan says at last. Ford’s hand stutters before resuming his soothing. He stays silent and waits. Eventually: “I’m fat. And hairy. And old.” Stan doesn't shrink physically, but Ford feels his presence diminish, as if Stan is trying to fade. Ford stills his soothing and grips Stan at the shoulder. He’s lost, he’s not sure what to say. Stan can’t go away. He leans into Stan’s space, into his neck. Stan shudders when Ford inhales and sighs out a warm breath.

“Why,” Ford lets his lips rest behind Stan’s ears a moment, just feeling. “I think you’re perfect.” He feels Stan shudder and stiffen.

“I don’t need your pity, Sixer. I’m old and fat, no need to lie about it.” Ford feels a rumble like a chuckle in Stan. “Didn’t wear that girdle for nothin’.” Ford frowns, pulls back, and stares at the back of Stan’s head, thinking. He lets the hand rubbing Stan’s upper arm slide down to Stan’s waist and then forward, enough to be suggestive but innocent.

“God, you’re so soft,” he murmurs into Stan’s neck, hot air and secretive words. Stan shivers, tries to turn his head.

“The hell you doin’?” Stan tries to wiggle away but Ford tightens his hold around Stan’s stomach in a vice-like embrace. He nuzzles his way down Stan’s neck, dry lips pecking and dragging.

“So warm.” Ford pushes his hand under Stan’s shirt again, tracing up and up until it’s over Stan’s heart, the strong _thump-thump_ of the pulsing muscle like its own creature hidden under the drooping skin of Stan’s pectorals. Stan makes a little sound, like distress, still tense, at odds with his welcoming, yielding flesh.

“Ford,” he says; soft, confused. Ford kisses his cheek, stubble rough and tantalizing against his chapped lips.

“Roll over for me?” He pecks another kiss to Stan’s face before pulling back. Stan slowly lays flat against the bed, face flushed and nose particularly red; his shirt is still rucked up over his gut in a cock-eyed tease. He’s almost bashful, uncomfortable, hands clenching the sheets in nervous jerks, legs bent and splayed enough to give Ford room to settle between them. Stan has to crane his neck forward to watch Ford; it looks painful.

“Ford, what--?”

“Sh, just lie down.” Ford rests his hands on either knee, running his broad palms down the denim to Stan’s feet and back up. Stan’s head falls against the mattress with a huff.

“This is some weird fucking foreplay.” Stan grumbles at the ceiling. Ford hums and slides his palms up the top of Stan’s thighs. Stan sighs. “Warmer.” Ford chuckles, then moves higher. “Colder!” Stan starts to lean up, Ford lets him, rubbing up until he can catch the hem of Stan’s shirt.

“I want your shirt off,” Ford says and begins to tug it up and Stan crunches up enough to let Ford push and pull the article off; it tangles a bit with Stan’s thick arms and his muffled swearing makes Ford smile. When Stan is gloriously bared, Ford stares at him, entranced.

“Yer doin’ it again,” Stan mutters, jarring Ford from his quest to memorize every inch of Stan’s skin. Ford let’s his hands run over that chest again and speaks.

“I love your stomach,” he starts, ignoring Stan’s scoff. “You’re so warm and soft.” Ford lets his hands rest on either side of Stan’s gut, just feeling. “I love how rough your hair is.” Ford tangles a hand into Stan’s happy trail and Stan moans.

“Ford, come on--”

“I love your nipples, always have,” Ford moves up and latches around the left, Stan squirms and finally moves, pushing a hand at Ford’s head.

“Ford, ya know I’m not really,” he gestures and Ford hums, a little disappointed, but he pulls off and kisses Stan on the chest. Ford kisses the place above Stan’s heart before resting his head there a moment, just listening with his whole body.

“I love how strong you are.” Ford regretfully lifts away from the pillow of Stan’s chest to run reverent fingers down Stan’s arms, clasping at the wrists. He lifts the right hand and kisses the wrist. “Your nimble hands,” Ford kisses the palm and Stan moans again. “Quick fingers,” he kisses Stan’s thumb before sucking the digit into his mouth. Stan twitches in time with his groan, thumb spasming as Ford hums, a low burning contentment. He pulls off with a quick _shlick_ , all suction and dull teeth. Stan shudders. Ford looks at his face, his glasses that are smudged with condensation and skin oils. Ford plucks those glasses away.

“Hey.” Stan flails for the glasses but Ford is quick and easily places them beyond reach. “Not fair, Sixer.” Stan glares at what may well be a blob of color that is Ford. Ford runs both thumbs over Stan’s grey brows; Stan’s eyes instinctively relax, face going slack.

“Don’t worry about seeing me, Stan. Just feel me. Hear me.” He trails those thumbs down Stan’s face, over the cheekbones, the rough jaw. Stan twitches, shivers. Ford leans down, clasping his brother’s face, and kisses Stan, who opens and surges forward with a ravenous hunger, sucking and nipping against Ford’s slow and steadfast pace. Eventually, Stan groans in frustration.

“Come on, Ford, I know ya like this shmoopy shit, but yer going slow enough to kill my dick.” Stan gestures to his perked half-chub. “Don’t ya wanna put that fat cock in this old whore?” Stan spreads his legs with a leer; shirtless in only denim he looks like a pin-up. Ford frowns.

“Stan is that--I mean you don’t--” Ford is cut off by Stan’s loud groan.

“Christ, Sixer, it’s dirty talk, you should try it.” Stan grumbles, blushing and grumpy. It makes Ford’s heart do a little flip and squeeze.

“Stanley, I don’t think you’re a...promiscuous.” Stan groans, hands smacking over his face.

“A slut, Ford. A whore.” He mumbles between his palms. Ford makes a quick decision and leans down, bracing a hand on either side of Stan’s head and kisses the exposed knuckles.

“I don’t like you...calling yourself that.” When Stan pulls his hands away, Ford pecks a kiss on the closest thing--the side of Stan’s nose. Stan makes another grumbling sound. Ford leans back, still curled over Stan. Stan is looking at him with a kind of torn dubiousness. “No one can talk about you like that.” Ford moves a hand to gently rub his knuckles up and down the carotid artery in Stan’s neck then sliding along the underside of Stan’s jaw, moving Stan’s face by the chin. “So don’t.” Stan scoffs, but there’s a heat rising in his cheeks. Ford leans back fully, letting his hands drag over Stan’s chest and stomach. “Now, where was I?”

“Not sucking my dick.” Ford rolls his eyes.

“Hm. Though I do think I want your pants off.” Ford starts on Stan’s button and zipper. He isn’t hasty or dawdling. He removes the denim with efficiency, though he makes a noise of approval when Stan lift’s his hips. Ford’s fingers hooked into his belt loops and pulling down and down until the pants clear the minor challenge that is Stan’s flat ass and skinny thighs. The shimmy down the bed is inelegant but Ford distracts himself by drinking in the sight of Stan’s pale legs shadowed with silvery curls that cast shadows like thin strokes of graphite. Finally, the jeans are discarded and Ford sits at the end of the bed, admiring. (Though, in truth, Ford sometimes remembers the refugees of !^2h; their disproportionate bodies. Stomachs that swelled visibly with food while their legs remained skeletal, lacking the calories to create fat cells. Ford worries over the nights Stan went hungry.)

Now, Ford only leans down to kiss Stan’s knobby knees. Stan squirms.

“Seriously, Ford, this is weird.” Stan’s leg twitches away from Ford’s mouth. Ford doesn’t move away nor does he move closer, but he slides his gaze up to meet Stan’s eyes, one hand resting heavily on Stan’s shin.

“You deserve this, Stan,” he says, low and hot, he can feel the heat in his gut steaming his words, thickening the air. “You’ve earned it.” With that, he turns and kisses Stan’s knee again, moving lower, skimming over the lean, hairy calves. Stan still squirms.

“Sixer, come on, stop.” Stan tries to sit up, to push at Ford. Ford gently wraps a hand around Stan’s foot and then kisses the sole.

“Shit!” Stan gasps and then makes a choked sound like a giggle. “This is not the kind of dirty I was expecting.”

“There's nothing dirty about feet.” Ford says, moving to peck a kiss to the other foot as well before shifting up the bed, lifting one of Stan’s legs at the knee. Stan groans encouragement, moves to lift the other leg. Ford licks the divot behind the knee and Stan’s body convulses.

“God, I love the way you taste. Every inch of you has this...Christ, it’s wonderful.” Ford lets his tongue dip in again.

“Ford, stop.” Stan wriggles again. Ford just applies more pressure, licks, and pulls back.

“You know the safe word.” He says, an echo of that previous, painful moment. Ford lifts the other knee and tongues that same divot. Stan wriggles and Ford loves that responsiveness. Stan finally, honestly groans. Ford moans in response, hot breath on that thin layer of vulnerable skin. Stan’s leg twitches but he doesn’t try to pull away.

Ford continues his ascent, nuzzling along Stan’s hairy thighs. They aren't plush enough to press into but the coarse hair feels heavenly against his stubble.

“It always made me jealous, how hairy you were when we were teens.” Ford runs his palms up those thighs and under the boxer legs, pulling back with a hint of nail.

“Ford, come on.” Stan flails a hand down, grabbing Ford's wrist, tugging it to Stan’s preferred destination. Ford gently grasps Stan's hand, kissing the knuckles.

“Stan,” he closes his eyes and breathes, pressing the hand to his cheek. “Please, just let me worship you.” Stan makes a sound like a whine and a groan.

“Sixer, don’t,” he trails off, continues. “I ain’t worth it, Ford.”

“Stanley,” Ford leans back, hand still grasping Stan’s wrist. Stan won’t look at him, shoulders hunched to protect his neck from a nonexistent threat.

“I know yer all messed up after everythin’, but, I ain’t,” Stan stalls again, then his face twists into something self-deprecating and mean. He finally looks at Ford. “Ya got a habit of being suckered by old cons, Sixer.” Ford resists the urge to squeeze Stan’s hand in frustration; the urge to shake his brother into understanding. Instead, Ford bends and presses a heavy, passionate kiss into Stan’s mouth, licking and nipping until he can’t breathe. He pulls back panting and Stan is worse off; gasping, eyes glazed. Ford grabs Stan’s face, a hand on either cheek.

“You saved the world, Stanley.” Ford pecks Stan’s lips. Stan squirms, opens his mouth to respond. “You saved the kids.” Ford pecks a kiss to Stan’s face, beneath his eye. “You saved me.” Ford kisses his brother again, slow and sweet, Stan groaning into it, hands finally burying into Ford’s hair. “Thank you,” Ford breathes, hot and wet between them. Stan whimpers, those words still stinging with remembered bitterness. Ford mouths at Stan’s neck, “thank you,” he whispers again.

“Fuck, Ford, enough teasin’.” Stan tugs his hair, impatient. Ford grinds an indulgent knee into Stan’s crotch, making his brother hiss and arch.

“What do you want me to do?” Ford asks, hands idly rubbing Stan’s shoulder, his neck.

“Some attention to my dick would be nice.” Stan gives a little downward tug and Ford laughs, quiet and private, kissing a grumbling Stan once more on the cheek.

“Of course, Stan.” Ford shimmies down Stan’s body, stopping to kiss Stan’s belly again.

“Ford...” Stan warns and Ford hums, kissing lower, lower, hooking his thumbs under the elastic of Stan’s boxers.

“May I?” Ford asks Stan’s plush stomach and feels Stan’s exasperated groan.

“Christ, Sixer, you gotta ask?” Stan pushes at the article in question and between the two of them Stan is bared, red and wet to the cabin air. Stan groans as Ford gently wraps a six fingered hand around the shaft before him, somewhat slicked with precum and sweat. He kisses the tip, making Stan squirm, hands fluttering before threading through his hair--not grasping like before, just resting, cradling. Ford moans, encouraging the hands in his hair, before tonguing the wet, leaking slit. Stan gives a full-bodied groan, hands spasming against Ford’s scalp erotically. Ford pulls back, gives another firm pump of Stan’s cock, precum swelling at the tip, before ignoring the shaft entirely to kiss the hairy balls instead.

Again, Ford is enamored by the contrast of coarse hair and soft, wrinkled skin. He recalls the worn, soft parchments of the Great Library of Beta-Theta-7 and wonders what Stan would think to know his balls are being compared to invaluable works of literature. He’d probably be thrilled. Ford takes the time to suck gently at the sensitive sack, soft nips that are barely a hint of hard teeth, a tease. He presses a kiss to that tender spot between cock and balls, sucks lightly and Stan damn near howls, thrusting alarmingly. Ford worries he’ll throw his back.

“Easy,” he says, low, hands gentling Stan’s twitching thighs.

“Wanna hear ya say that,” Stan pants, “when someone’s sucking ya after an hour of teasing.” Ford grabs Stan’s dick again, tonguing the ridge and then swallowing the head. “Fucking, Christ!” Ford sucks and licks the head while stroking the shaft and rolling and gently squeezing the balls. Stan’s hands are tight in his hair, hips stuttering between shallow, erratic thrusts and trembling with the strain of holding still. Ford pulls back with a teasing lave of the slit. Stan groans and Ford can feel the sounds vibrate through the air.

“Ford, why’d ya--”

“You can fuck my mouth if you want,” Ford offers. Stan swears, hips bucking, hands spasming.

“Jesus Christ, Ford, you can’t say things like that.” He looks down at Ford, eyes unfocused without his glasses. Ford smiles anyway, fond.

“I’m just saying, no need to hold back,” he kisses the head again. “I’m not fragile.” And he goes down until his nose is pressed into Stan’s rough pubes. The discomfort of the stretch is worth the way Stan is swearing and moaning. He pulls up enough to breathe through his nose and Stan takes his offer to heart, thrusting up hard and fast, working out the frustration of Ford’s teasing. Ford does his best to keep his throat open, to breathe steadily. He’s mortified by the noises he’s making--wet and sloppy gags and grunts--and he knows his face is a mess of sweat and spit, but Stan just twitches with every filthy sound. Ford moans, inspired, and Stan curses a fresh blue streak and comes more quickly then either of them expected. Ford swallows the first string but pulls back with a cough, catching the rest on his face, clinging to his glasses. He catches his breath, waiting for Stan to do the same.

“Come ‘ere,” Stan tugs his hair with one hand, pushing himself to sit with the other. He’s red and breathless but he pulls until Ford is in his lap. Stan reaches up; this close he can see Ford clearly. “Yer a mess,” he straightens Ford’s stained glasses and the gentle domesticity of that act makes a shy blush take over Ford’s face. Stan leans forward, kissing Ford deep and slow, hand snaking down to Ford’s pants. “Didn’t even get yer pants off.” Stan chides, popping the button of the denim, Ford wiggles and with Stan’s help they get the pants down far enough that Stan can grope Ford’s erection. Ford sighs, wraps his arms around Stan’s shoulder and rests his face in the crook of Stan’s neck, smearing drying come on his skin. Stan doesn’t seem to mind, just dips into Ford’s pants and starts to jack him, slow and steady.

“I love you,” he moans into Stan’s neck and feels the rumble of a chuckle.

“I know,” Stan says with a twist that has Ford’s eyes rolling.

“I love you,” he gasps, “all of you. I love you.”

“Don’t make it weird, Sixer.” Stan pecks a kiss to Ford’s temple. Ford whines, hips thrusting against his will, hands scrabbling at Stan’s broad back.

“I almost lost you,” Ford gasps and he doesn’t realize he’s crying until he hears Stan shush him, the fingers of one large, warm hand carding through his hair.

“It’s okay, Ford, you got me.” Stan murmurs, continuing with his soft, steady pulls and Ford is so conflicted--he loves his brother, loves this moment, but remembers pushing Stan away, losing Stan. His heart is full of love and wonder and terrible fear. He clutches his brother harder, panting through the pleasure and muted sobs.

“Love you, love you.” He’s babbling, his control stripped away piece by piece until he’s crying out, coming in Stan’s hand. He reaches down to take Stan’s hand, but Stan just wipes his hand on the sheet, pulling Ford down so that they’re laying side by side, facing each other. Stan grabs Ford’s glasses, sets them to the side, before stroking his face. Ford sighs and leans into the touch. “Love you.”

“Yeah, ditto, ya nerd.” Stan cups the back of Ford’s neck, bringing their foreheads together. They lay there, like that, just breathing each other in until they fall asleep. They can shower in the morning.


End file.
